


Security Blanket

by Fayola



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Platonic Cuddling, because dammit that's my jam, mentions of Megatron canonically being a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5981538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayola/pseuds/Fayola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grown though he may now be, Bumblebee finds he still could use a little reassurance from old childhood comforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Security Blanket

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a not-so-wonderful month, so when I found this unedited, self-indulgent piece of nonsense I'd written a while back lurking in my files, I thought I'd run a comb through it and slap it up here. Because seriously. The world needs more Papa Optimus.

     Considering their bodies were capable of withstanding the vacuum of space for relatively lengthy stretches of time, blankets were something of a ridiculous luxury. Ratchet kept flimsy foil heating blankets in the medbay to treat cases of shock or failed temperature regulators, but real, honest-to-Primus, woven mesh blankets were just not practical to create or keep during times of war, particularly now, with how bare-bones their situation was on Earth.

     It didn’t mean Bumblebee didn’t miss them, though.

     The day the Autobots had found him, just a youngling in his third upgrade, small and underfueled and filthy, he had been swept up by a pair of strong arms and wrapped in a blanket pulled from someone’s personal subspace. He’d never had such a thing as a blanket before — luxuries as expensive as that were not often thrown away, and while he may have scavenged, he’d never reduced himself to stealing — but even without any first-hand knowledge to compare it to, he was certain this was the softest, warmest blanket in creation. He could have lived forever wrapped in its soft folds, held by strong yet gentle arms, helm resting against broad chestplates, soothed by the sound of a rumbling bass voice against his audial and a calm EM field enveloping his own.

     He could not have been more surprised and gleeful when he had been permitted to keep the wonderful thing, and the orns that followed — filled with new bots and big new places and scary noises and so very many questions — were spent clutching the comforting anchor to his chestplates.

     It had been a sad orn when that blanket, worn to tatters and long past its expiration date, finally saw its last moments. But Ratchet had run out of field dressings, and Arcee needed that shredded fuel line tourniqueted more than Bumblebee needed a scrap of mesh that had more nostalgia than functional use.

     No, blankets were just not practical.

     But sitting alone in the gloom of the base, dutifully watching the monitors and doing his best to ignore the memory of a voice still lingering in his head as everyone else slept through the late hours of the night, Bumblebee shivered and wished to have one.

     “Any movement, Little Bee?”

     Bumblebee jumped, bleating shrilly. Primus, how deeply enmeshed in his own thoughts had he been if he hadn’t noticed something as loud as the Prime’s booming footsteps approaching? Beeping a sheepish apology, the scout shook his helm in a negative response to his leader’s query.

     “No need to apologize,” Optimus soothed, resting a massive hand on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the first mech to find monitor duty tediously dull. I commend you for not completely falling into recharge.”

     Bumblebee chuckled, tossing the Prime a flippant salute. Optimus’s optics creased in that familiar way, the shadow of a smile that rarely showed itself anywhere else on his faceplates.

     “Might I keep you company?” he asked. “I find myself restless tonight.”

     As if he needed to ask. Bee nodded eagerly, chirping brightly in the affirmative. He popped up from his seat in offering to his leader, who took it with a wordless rumble of thanks. He intended to go fetch another, but a large servo wrapped about his wrist and tugged him back gently. With a little whir of surprise, he found himself scooped up and plonked down into Prime’s lap.

     “Thank you,” Optimus murmured, arms encircling Bumblebee’s torso and strong, calm field washing over him in an all-encompassing manner that made Bumblebee suddenly feel like that orphaned little street urchin all over again. Ex-venting contentedly, his struts turned to mercury and he melted into his leader’s embrace, leaning his helm against broad chestplates so that when Optimus spoke again, he could hear the rumbling bass right up against his audial.

     “I am certain I do not say it enough,” came the soft but resonating words, “but I hope you know I am proud of you. We face greater opposition now than ever before, and your performance has been nothing short of admirable.” Strong but gentle arms tightened around him. “I cannot tell you how fortunate I feel to have you by my side during this grim time.”

     Bumblebee swallowed thickly. [Of course I’ve got your back, Optimus,] he said at last. [You’ve always had mine.]

     “My little Bee…” Optimus hummed. “I always will.”

     Shuttering his optics, fingers curling around the edge of an armor plate, basking in the warmth surrounding him, it was surprisingly easy to forget the chill that had been settling under his plating only moments before.


End file.
